


Stay With Me

by lilyinthesky



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Caring Mickey Milkovich, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Healing, Hurt Ian Gallagher, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealous Mickey Milkovich, Love, M/M, Mania, Mental Health Issues, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Protective Mickey Milkovich, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22491904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyinthesky/pseuds/lilyinthesky
Summary: "DON'T FUCKING TELL ME WHAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!"Fiona froze, Debbie jolted, and even Mandy looked taken aback by his emotional display. Their shocked looks quickly faded, though, and were replaced by near-identical expressions of pity.This would have infuriated Mickey, were he not already drowning in a million other emotions.He jabbed a finger at the eldest Gallagher sibling. "We're taking care of him HERE; you, me, us! He's fucking family."------No one believes that Mickey is capable of caring for his bipolar boyfriend, and he is determined to prove them all wrong. They'll put Ian in a nuthouse over his dead fucking body.A rewrite of Ian's bipolar storyline, told primarily from Mickey's perspective.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 14
Kudos: 139





	1. Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey processes a whirlpool of emotions after learning of Ian's bipolar disorder.

"I can take care of him, okay? Just let me take care of him until he's better!"

Mickey hated the tremor in his voice, which made his attempt at a demand sound more like a desperate plea. He hated that he couldn't make his hands stop shaking. Fiona's words echoed inside his brain like gunshots, louder and louder with every second.

_Depression. Bipolar. Suicidal. Might have to be hospitalized...._

His ears were ringing. His head was spinning. He felt like his world was falling apart. 

"It can be _weeks_ ," Fiona said, her voice thick with emotion. She stared at him with wide, tear-filled eyes that were begging him to understand. "It's mood swings. It's almost impossible to handle-"

"DON'T FUCKING TELL ME WHAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!"

Fiona froze, Debbie jolted, and even Mandy looked taken aback by his emotional display. Their shocked looks quickly faded, though, and were replaced by near-identical expressions of pity.

This would have infuriated Mickey, were he not already drowning in a million other emotions. 

He jabbed a finger at the eldest Gallagher sibling. "We're taking care of him HERE; you, me, _us_! He's fucking family."

Mickey went to grab a beer from the fridge, mainly as an excuse to turn away from them all and pinch the tears from his eyes. Fuck their pity, he didn't need it. He didn't need to be having this pointless fucking conversation. What he needed was to get back upstairs and take care of Ian.

_I can take care of him._

"....call Lip and tell him what's going on," Fiona was saying to Debbie, all level-headed now, like she had some fucking plan. And Debbie was nodding solemnly as she followed her sister to the door, and it was as if they both understood something that they could not even begin to explain to Mickey, and didn't want to. As if he wasn't even a part of this.

Mickey could have thrown his beer bottle at them.

"He's not going to some fucking nuthouse!" he yelled, causing the sisters to turn and glare at him. "You hear me? He stays _here_. He's staying with me."

He almost hoped that they would come back and fight him on it so he could yell at them some more, but the girls left without another word.

He turned to Mandy next, but she was already on her way out the back door, tears streaming down her face. She was gone before he could yell at her either. 

So he kicked a hole in the wall instead.

"How lovely," grumbled Svetlana, and Mickey nearly jumped out of his skin. She was standing right behind him, holding the baby, and wearing her usual expression of combined annoyance and amusement.

"Jesus! How long have you been standing there?"

She simply rolled her eyes and gestured to the hole in the wall. ""Why you make shit house even shittier?"

"Fuck off," said Mickey. He took off up the stairs before the stupid Russian broad could bother him about anything else. He needed to check on Ian before he lost his fucking mind.

He halted right outside of the bedroom door, which was open just a crack. Fiona had gone ahead and closed the curtains that Mickey had opened earlier, effectively dimming the room, so only the yellow light from the hallway illuminated the motionless lump on the bed that was his boyfriend.

"Ian?" Mickey started in a careful voice as he slipped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. "You alright man?"

Sure it was a stupid question, but he had to say something. Ian hadn't spoken a word to him for almost three days now, other than yelling at him to go away. The silence was agonizing.

No response.

Mickey sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He wanted so badly to touch him, but didn't know if he was allowed.

"Gallagher, you alive under there?"

Still nothing, though the gentle rise and fall of the blankets indicated that he was indeed alive.

So then why wouldn't he talk to him?

"You know, I really wish you'd talk to me," Mickey said out loud, because fuck it, why not? "I'm trying like hell here, and not getting a damn thing for it. And it's really starting to piss me off."

No answer. Not that he should've expected one, he guessed.

Mickey made fists at his sides, seriously fighting the urge to shove Ian off the bed. But he knew that he needed to calm down, or he would just keep making things worse, like he always did.

So he took a deep breath.

"Fiona says you're depressed," Mickey said. "I get it. She said it might get really bad. Okay. But....why shut _me_ out, of all people? What, you think you can't fucking talk to me? Did I do something? Do you think I don't care?"

Mickey found that he was getting progressively sadder as he spoke, but also calmer. He didn't _want_ to be angry at Ian for shutting him out, even though that was always his first instinct. He just wanted to understand.

When Ian still didn't respond, didn't even shift under the blankets, Mickey entertained the idea that he might actually be asleep.

So he relaxed onto the bed, and let the rest of his anger slip away.

"...I miss your voice," Mickey admitted softly, without even thinking. "Like, a lot. And your face. And your stupid fucking smile. I want... I want you to _look_ at me, at least. Jesus, I feel like-"

He had to cut himself off with a laugh then, fully aware that he sounded exactly like the little bitch he always claimed not to be. He used to deny that he was able to "blurt out how he fucking feels every minute", but doing so felt remarkably easy now. Easy, and necessary. Though maybe only because he was pretty sure Ian was asleep and couldn't hear his pathetic rambling.

Deciding that it was worth the risk, Mickey scooted up right next to Ian on the bed and leaned over so he could see his face. Ian's eyes were closed, but his face and posture were the opposite of peaceful. He looked tensed up, like he was in pain. Was he having a nightmare? Did his depression plague him even in his sleep?

Or could he sense that Mickey was there, and didn't want him to be?

Almost impulsively, Mickey began to run his fingers through the fiery red hair he loved so much, all knotted up and greasy from days without being washed, but still as gorgeous as ever. He stroked it gently, untangling some knots as he went.

He thought he felt Ian's body relax a bit at the touch, though it was completely possible that he had imagined it.

"....I still feel like I haven't seen you in months," Mickey went on, just spilling out words as he thought of them. "Like you never really came back from the army. Maybe cause you've been so fucking bonkers since you got back." Mickey wanted to laugh at that, at least at the truth of it, except it wasn't funny at all. It just saddened him even more.

From the moment he saw Ian in that fucking club, coked out and rubbing his ass all over strange men, he knew that he was looking at a different boy than the one he used to know. This new version of Ian that had somehow transformed from hot to _irresistible_ in the span of a couple months; and Mickey couldn't lie and say he didn't get hard during that lap dance he was forced to pay for that night....but all of that was overshadowed by how strange and unstable he seemed.

And the fact that Mickey had to save him from getting dragged off and probably raped by that predatory fuckwad, then had to carry him home passed out from all those drugs, just further unnerved him. Not to mention the random bursts of energy and disregard for safety that continued over the following days, which Mickey couldn't even begin to make sense of.

Of course, now he knew that it was all apart of this bipolar thing. And as scary and exhausting as it was, Mickey wondered if he preferred that high, super-charged Ian to the one laying next to him now, who was so fucking depressed that he could barely move.

He honestly didn't know.

"I missed you everyday while you were gone, you know," Mickey said, referring to when Ian had run off to the army. "And I still miss you. You're right fucking here, and I miss you. And I lo-" the word broke off and died in his throat with a strangled noise. Shit, had he really been about to say that?

Dammit, this boy....

"Well, you know what I mean." Mickey sighed in defeat, then yawned. Maybe it was the dark room, or emotional exhaustion, or the warmth of Ian's body next to him, but he suddenly felt like he could use a nap.

"So anyway, your sister doesn't think I can take care of you," Mickey said as he began to strip down, almost forgetting that Ian wasn't awake to listen. "But of course that's bullshit. You know how fucked up my family is; there ain't no level of psycho crazy you can throw at me that I haven't seen before. And at least _you're_ worth it. At least, I hope you know that."

Once in just his boxers, Mickey moved the covers aside so he could lay down next to Ian. He made sure there wasn't an inch of space between them, because fuck, he was sick of being cautious. Then he leaned in close to his ear.

"I'm gonna take care of you, Ian Gallagher. That's a promise."

He wrapped his arms around the boy's waist to pull him in close, but flinched back when he realized that he could feel every one of Ian's ribs against his bare chest.

"Christ, when did you lose so much weight? I feel like I'm gonna break you in half."

He said it lightheartedly, though his immediate thoughts when he felt Ian's stick-thin body were, _When the hell did he last eat? Has he been eating the food Mandy and I have been bringing him. Have we even checked to make sure? Fuck, am I that shitty of a boyfriend? What if I really can't....?_

Mickey shut down his spiral into self-doubt by clutching Ian even tighter, running his hand through his hair again, and pressing a long kiss to the side of his neck. 

Ian's whole body shuddered against him, and Mickey froze. There was no way he had imagined it this time.

"....Ian?"

"Mmm," Ian groaned as he shifted closer to Mickey, now undoubtedly on purpose. His breathing was labored, like even that tiny movement exhausted him, but he relaxed fully into Mickey's arms. When he finally spoke it was in a whisper, his voice raspy from lack of use.

"Mick?" 

_Oh thank fucking Christ_ , Mickey thought, then had stop himself from asking how long he had been awake, and if had heard any of the sappy shit Mickey had said. He decided that he didn't want to know.

"Well hey there, Sleeping Beauty," Mickey said instead. "You doing okay?"

Ian groaned, but managed to turn his head so he could lay it on top of Mickey's chest. "Tired," he said.

Mickey rubbed his back. "I know." Again he had to bite his tongue to keep from berating him with questions, this time about the bipolar thing. There was just so much he still didn't know, and God knew he wasn't about to talk to Fiona about it.

Did Ian even know he was bipolar?

But now was not the time for an interrogation. Not while the boy was still barely conscious.

"Are you hungry?" Mickey asked.

He felt Ian shrug against him.

"Thirsty?"

Another shrug.

"Fuck it, lemme get you some water at least." Mickey started to sit up, gently moving Ian off of him as he did. He was already making a mental note to coordinate his work schedule with Mandy's, so he could ensure that one of them was here to check on Ian at least three or four times a day.

But he didn't get very far before he felt a hand on his wrist. "Wait."

Mickey turned and froze completely when he saw that, _finally_ , Ian was looking at him. His face was drained of color, even more so than normal, and his bright blue eyes were glazed over. He looked confused, like he was unsure if he was truly here or not. He hadn't even lifted his head up from the pillow.

But he was looking at him. And damn, he was beautiful.

"Stay," said Ian. His voice was so quiet. He looked to be trying hard to stay awake, but his hold on Mickey's wrist was already loosening, and his eyelids were fluttering. "St-stay....with me?"

Mickey didn't hesitate. In one motion, he fell back into bed and took Ian into his arms, where the delirious boy snuggled in close. He tucked himself into the spot where Mickey's collarbone met his neck, throwing one arm over his chest, while Mickey put both of his arms around Ian's thin frame.

God, he was skinny, and so, so pale. He looked more like a corpse than a person. Mickey wanted to cry.

He kissed the top of Ian's head. "'Course," he whispered. "Always."

Ian breathed something inaudible against his neck. It could've been _thank you_ _;_ or _I love you;_ or maybe it wasn't anything at all. But whatever he said or didn't say, he was breathing. And that alone was wonderful.

Mickey held Ian like that for a long time, barely moving even when his neck grew stiff and his arm fell asleep, and he had counted the cracks in the ceiling a hundred times over. Ian's breaths on his skin were soothing, and Mickey soon began counting them instead.

Late afternoon turned to evening. Mandy came home from work and started banging around in the kitchen, and Kenyatta's booming voice carried up the stairs when they started fighting about dinner or Mandy's clothes or something. Then the crashing started.

The noise caused Ian to seize up in Mickey's arms at one point and start groaning as if in pain. There was a loud BANG, like something metal being thrown, and Ian jolted awake and started to cry, and it took ever ounce of Mickey's willpower not to run down there and scream at them to shut the fuck up, because he knew that Ian needed him here more.

He held Ian through his panic attack; he shushed him and kissed his head, and rubbed his back until the noises finally quieted down, and he was able to fall back asleep against Mickey's now tearstained chest.

Evening turned to night. The house was relatively quiet now; Mandy and Kenyatta had both fucked off, presumably in different directions, but who knew? All that mattered was that they were gone and Ian could rest. The only disruptions to the peace now came from outside, which was never quiet anyway. Loud drunks, police sirens, and the occasional rumbling of passing trains were all fairly normal when you lived on the South Side.

Mickey tried to block out everything that wasn't Ian's gentle breaths, which helped him through surges of anxiety whenever he recalled Fiona's words from earlier. When he remembered that this beautiful, quiet moment would not last forever, that Ian was still bipolar, and that he still didn't completely know what that meant, and he had no idea what the coming days would bring.

Mickey hugged Ian tight and kissed him again, this time for his own comfort. Then he closed his eyes and lay very still, and hoped that sleep would find him sometime before night turned to dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think so far! :)


	2. Temporary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is overwhelmed with relief when, after what seems like an eternity, Ian finally comes out of his depressive episode. Is it too much to hope that everything can just be okay after this?

It took approximately eight days for Mickey to come pounding on the Gallaghers' front door once again.

This time it was the younger brother who answered, the one whose name Mickey could never remember, but it didn't matter. He shoved the little punk aside, letting himself in. "Where's Fiona?"

"Uh, can I help you?"

"Yeah shit head, I said where the fuck is Fiona? She home?"

Mickey's question was answered when a stern woman's voice called from upstairs, "CARL, WHO'S AT THE DOOR?"

"It's Ian's _gay_ boyfriend!" Carl yelled back, smirking at Mickey. He obviously knew that he was being redundant, but wanted an excuse to call him gay.

Mickey flipped off the ten-year-old as he walked by, and just before Fiona came into the kitchen with wet hair and a towel around her neck. Her eyes widened immediately at the sight of him. "What is it? Is Ian okay?"

Smart girl. Then again, it wasn't like there were many other reasons why Mickey would stop by randomly on a Sunday morning.

"Wish I fucking knew," Mickey growled. "He shut down again. Won't even talk to me."

Fiona blinked. "Really? He was fine a couple days ago. Well, comparatively."

Right, like she would know. She had only come to visit once since leaving Ian to stay with him (though it might've been Mickey's constant glaring and protective hovering that discouraged her from visiting again). She had next to no perspective on how Ian was doing.

To Mickey, who was with him constantly, Ian had seemed to be getting better every day. He would walk around, eat a little, take a shower, and had even go outside sometimes (for ten minutes at most, but still). And once or twice, while laying in bed with him and ranting about his day working with Russian prostitutes ("fucking commies" Mickey would often call them), he swore he saw the pale boy crack at least half a smile. Overall, even when just laying down quietly, he was never as bad as he was that first day.

Until today.

"Well he's not fine now!" Mickey snapped. "I thought you said this shit would be highs _and_ lows, not that he'd just be depressed for the rest of-!"

"I also said that episodes can last for _weeks,"_ Fiona shot back, glaring. "And what has it been, six days?"

"Eight," Mickey corrected, bitterly.

Yes, eight days since he last sought out Ian's family, most of whom he barely knew, desperate for answers about what was wrong with his boyfriend. Eight days since Fiona dropped the bomb that Ian likely had some fucking mood disorder, then accused Mickey of not being able to handle it. Eight days since he swore to show them that he could.

"And hang on, I thought _you_ said you could take care of him!" Fiona's tone was accusatory, not a drop of sympathy behind it. She almost seemed satisfied that Mickey had apparently failed.

Except that he hadn't, and he wanted to throttle her for thinking that.

"I _am,"_ he said sharply. "And by the way, I recall saying WE. 'You, me, us'? That ring any fucking bells?"

Fiona's eyes widened a bit, glistening with something Mickey couldn't quite catch, before growing dark and stormy. "So what, you insist on having him stay with you, and then come running to me when you need answers? Like it's _my_ fault he's still depressed? Like I have some secret fucking bipolar manual laying around that I just haven't told you about?"

Mickey rolled his eyes to hide the fact that Fiona's sudden tone change, plus the fact that she was starting towards him slowly, was scaring him a little. "Christ, I never said-"

"And fuck, you think if I _did_ know some magic trick for this shit that I wouldn't have used it already?!"

"I never said I needed a trick!"

"Then what _exactly_ do you want from me, Mickey?"

"I need to know if my boyfriend's ever gonna be happy agai-!" Mickey's voice cracked at the last word, and he wanted to scream. Here he was again, his most vulnerable emotions on display for Fiona fucking Gallagher, completely against his will.

But this time there was no pity. "Have you tried actually _taking him to a clinic?"_ she asked, speaking to him like he was stupid. "You know, those places where people get _meds_ for shit like this?" 

"Bitch, I can barely get him to eat a bowl of fucking cereal and you think he's gonna say yes to-"

"Then don't come crying to me when-"

"Hey!" a new voice cut them off. It was the _other_ brother, who wasn't Carl. Lip.

Lip stepped in between Fiona and Mickey, and spoke to them in turn. "Fiona, I know you're upset, but you need to get it together. You aren't nine, and this isn't Frank and Monica. And Mick," he shifted his stern expression to him. _"You_ can't come in here all pissed and freaked out like that. This whole situation is a kind of a sore spot for us, Fiona especially. Now can we all just chill the fuck out here?"

Lip's voice prevailed, and the other two quieted immediately. Mickey had to admit, the college kid was a fucking good mediator.

Fiona took an obvious step back, but still glared hard at Mickey. Mickey met her glare with an equally cold one of his own, gritting his teeth threateningly. Lip kept his cautious stance in the middle, his eyes flitting back and forth between them, looking as if he might say something else.

Then Mickey's phone rang.

Mickey had it out of his pocket and to his ear before the first tone died. "Ian?" he gasped, heart already in his throat.

It was like a sixth sense. He hadn't even glanced at the caller ID.

"Mick, where are you?" 

"I'll be right there, you okay?" Hell, he'd be out the door already if Lip and Fiona hadn't both grabbed on to him the second he answered the phone, as if knowing he'd try to bolt before telling them what was going on.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Where'd you go?"

"I....uh, I stepped out for a sec," Mickey stammered. He could see his bewilderment reflected in the eyes of both Gallagher siblings, who could definitely hear Ian through the phone.

Ian's voice sounded hoarse, like it always did after far too many hours of sleep, but otherwise he sounded....normal. That is to say, _not_ like the Ian who could barely string together six words without needing a nap right after, let alone pick up the phone, but more like his old self.

His old self who, Mickey could tell, was confused. And maybe a little worried?

"Just woke up," Ian was mumbling. "Didn't see you, and....I dunno. Guess I just didn't think you'd be gone." He ended with a small laugh, like even he knew he was being ridiculous, but there was too much sadness behind it for Mickey to find relief in the sound.

"I'm coming back though," Mickey assured him, finally shrugging out of the hold he was in. "On my way now."

The moment he hung up, Lip's and Fiona's voices overlapped each other, saying things like "call us-" and "tell us when-" and "let us know if-"

But Mickey was already out the door.

* * *

Of course, he was greeted first by the sight of Svetlana and five other whores- all dressed in their whorish clothes- yelling over each other in the kitchen.

"I don't speak fucking Russian!" Mickey yelled as he tried to escape past them and up the stairs, but his wife caught him by the back of his shirt. "OW! The fuck-"

 _"What are you doing?!"_ She growled, pissed.

Oh fuck, she was pissed, and not in the funny, classic Svetlana-always-looks-at-least-slightly-pissed way. No, she was pissed in the _real_ way. Really, real pissed. _Russian_ pissed.

And the scary, pissed off Russian whore was digging her clawed nails into the back of Mickey's neck, probably drawing blood the same color that she paints them with.

"Get off me you fucking bi-"

"You are piece of _shit_ husband, _never_ work, _never_ care for baby-" Svetlana's accent always thickened in anger, and it didn't help that Mickey could barely hear her among all of the other shrieking nonsense in his ears, not that he gave a shit what any of them were saying.

He _did_ give a shit that she was probably scarring him with those fucking talons of hers.

"Let me go-"

"You stay home _all day_ cuddling and fucking Orange Boy, no one to manage rub and tug-"

"Fuck you, I go to work!"

For the record, Mickey _had_ been going to work....kind of.

Truthfully, his mind had been so consumed by stress these past eight days that even when he was working- be it at the Alibi, or out running scams with his brothers- he wasn't entirely present. He'd rush through everything in his haste to get back to Ian, likely fucking things up in the process.

And Svetlana was here to call him out on it.

"Four girls get robbed this week! Men take advantage, now _I_ have to take care of-"

"Then go fucking take care of it! It's not my fault-"

"I work, I care for Yevgeny, now I do _your_ job-"

Mickey was about two seconds from defying one of his only morals in life- never hit a woman- when a firm, male voice shouted, "That's enough!"

It was undoubtedly the most beautiful fucking sound that Mickey had ever heard in his life, and not just because it was what finally silenced all of that Russian squawking. It was Ian, coming down the stairs in sweatpants and one of those sleeveless shirts that should be illegal for the way it accentuated his arm muscles. He had bedhead but, for once, didn't look tired.

The sight of him was beautiful too, even more so than it always was. Because this Ian was not a pale husk with dead eyes that moved like a zombie if it moved at all; no, _this_ Ian was more like the cheeky, freckle-faced army boy that Mickey had fallen for. He even had that military posture- shoulders down, back straight, chin up, head high- that Mickey had never truly noticed until it was gone, and now knew that it was one of the most attractive things about him. This Ian was _his_ Ian.

Oh, and this Ian was pissed.

Svetlana must have seen Ian about to grab the hand that was holding Mickey, because she moved it just in time. Mickey hissed in pain as the claws ripped themselves from the roots they had already made in his skin. _Fuck_ that hurt.

What followed more than made up for it though; he felt Ian caress the back of his neck tenderly, like he was assessing the damage, and his hand was so _warm._ Warm like a hand should be, when attached to someone healthy; but also warm like how the touch of someone you love will heat up the point of contact, then they just.... _melt_ into you. Or you melt into them. Mickey wasn't entirely sure which was happening now.

He doubted this touch meant as much to Ian as it did to him anyway, because it ended as soon as Ian felt over those stinging nail indentions. Then his hands were back at his sides, but in fists.

"You should get the fuck out of here," Ian said directly to Svetlana, his voice scarily calm. "Mickey might be too decent to hit a girl, but..." he left the implication hanging in the air.

Mickey was so amused at the use of his own name in the same sentence as the word _decent_ that he nearly missed that implication himself. However, by the time he caught on, Svetlana was already barking some Russian at the other girls, presumably telling them some bastardization of what Ian had said.

"I'm not scared of you, Orange Boy," Svetlana assured him before she followed them out. She bent down to pick up Yevgeny who, Mickey hadn't even noticed, had been fucking around with some Legos on the floor nearby. "I take our son to babysitter now. Then I go to work, because _some_ of us do that." She glared at Mickey to go with that last note then, then gave Ian one last look up and down before she left.

"I fucking work, you bitch!" Mickey yelled after her, an obvious attempt to get the last word.

"You do not run business. You collect money and leave like selfish dickhead."

"Oh, you fu-" But Mickey had no more words then, because those warm hands were back on him, falling onto his shoulders, stealing his attention from anything and everything else. 

"Mick," said Ian. "Are you okay?"

Mickey could only gawk at him for a second, sputtering. "Am _I_ okay? Jesus, _what?"_

"She had her claws in you pretty deep, man," Ian commented. He touched the area on the back of Mickey's neck again, making him wince. "We should probably go look at that."

"Jesus," said Mickey again, shaking his head in utter disbelief as he followed Ian back upstairs.

With how differently Ian was behaving, going back into the same bedroom that he (and, by extension, Mickey) had basically been living in for over a week was bizarre. The curtains were open for once; Mickey guessed that Ian had opened them when he woke up feeling better. But other than that, it still looked like the home of Zombie Ian: The bed was unmade, clothes and towels in various states of uncleanliness covered the floor, and piles of trash and dishes- evidence of how fucking hard they were all trying to keep Ian fed- were collected on every surface.

Whether subonsciously or on purpose, Ian ignored all of this. He went straight to the bathroom and raided the medicine cabinet until he found some cotton balls and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He came to Mickey with the supplies and motioned for him to sit down on the bed.

Mickey just stared at him. This fucking idiot.

"What?" Ian looked confused. "Are you okay?"

Mickey slapped the medical supplies out of Ian's hands. "Fuck me, Ian, are _you_ okay?"

Ian smirked in a familiar way, and Mickey just _knew_ he was about to comment on the ' _Fuck me'_ part of that sentence, and hated that he had to stop him, but he couldn't afford to get distracted (yet).

"Hang on, I mean it," he said firmly. "You can't just act like-" he gestured towards the bed, specifically the mess surrounding it, "and then be all-" he motioned back and forth between them, "without...." he just threw his hands up and let them fall back to his sides, figuring Ian should know what the hell he was getting at.

Ian's coy smile and attitude vanished in an instant, replaced with a resigned look. Yep, he had definitely been hoping to get by without talking about it.

"I don't know what you want me to say Mick," Ian sighed. He reached a hand up to pull at his own matted-up hair, a sign of discomfort. "I'm sor-"

"Definitely not that!" Mickey cut him off sharply. "You don't need to fucking apologize."

"Why not?" Ian argued. "I've been a pain in the ass haven't I? You don't have to pretend like you're not done with my shit....Hell, I'm surprised you're still even here." He added the last part like an afterthought, his voice quieting towards the end.

Then it hit Mickey hard, painful and abrupt like a backhand to the face, why Ian had sounded so worried on the phone earlier. He had thought that Mickey had fucking left him.

"I heard you trying to talk to me this morning," Ian went on. His eyes were wet. "And for some reason I just... _couldn't_. Shit, I don't know how to describe what it was like. This whole time, not being able to.... An-and then suddenly, it was just over. And I woke up, and you were gone. And I thought-" 

"I'm not going anywhere," Mickey practically growled. He had to fight the urge to hit something, because the fact that Ian thought that of him even for a _second_ hurt like hell, and how else could he show his hurt but with anger?

"Why wouldn't you?" Ian shot back. "I wasn't deaf this whole time, Mick. I know they've got you convinced that I'm a freak-"

"Hey!"

"Some sick, unstable fuckup like my mom-"

Mickey shoved him hard. "Cut it out! No one's got me convinced of shit!" 

Ian scoffed. "So what, you don't believe them?"

"I believe _you."_ Mickey took Ian's face in both of his hands. "And all I wanna know right now, honest to god, is if you're okay. Are you okay?"

"I'm not bipolar," said Ian, sounding desperate. "I-I've thought about it. It was the cocaine, it had to be. Too many drugs got me all-"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm normal," Ian insisted. "I _am._ Not crazy high, or low, or psychotic. I'm _not_ my mom."

"Ian!" Mickey gripped his face harder, maybe painfully so, and shook him. "Are you fucking _okay?!"_

Ian blinked, as if hearing the question for the first time. He looked to be taking a minute to consider it. "Yeah. I am now."

"Good."

Then Mickey kissed him.

Correction, Mickey crashed their mouths together with a teeth-rattling force, weaving both of his hands through Ian's hair as he pulled him close and began to practically _devour_ him.

Ian gasped, freezing in shock for at least two full seconds before returning the kiss vehemently. He clutched Mickey's body, trapping him against his chest with his warm, muscular arms.

Fucking damn, those arms. These lips. _This boy._

Mickey had missed this. Eight days was about nine days too many.

They made quick work of each other's clothes, as they had so many times before, but this felt different. _Countless_ times they had fucked and yet, including now, Mickey could count on one hand the number of times they had actually kissed. Let alone kissed _while_ fucking. 

Undoubtedly Mickey's fault, even he would admit. No kissing, no touching, no faggy romantic bullshit; these were all _his_ unspoken rules from the very beginning, to keep their relationship from evolving into anything more than 'sorta-friends who fuck' status. Rules that he tried more desperately to hold on to the more apparent it became that he was falling for Ian.

Rules that suddenly made no sense when Ian left, and Mickey realized that he would say anything, do anything, _be_ anything just to have him back.

And now here he was. And after over a week of being afraid that Ian might never have the energy for this again, Mickey was certain that whatever ridiculous aversion he'd had to kissing before was dead now. He loved kissing Ian Gallagher. He fucking LOVED it. He fucking loved _him._

And he was going to tell him....someday. Maybe. 

"Mick," Ian panted against his lips. " _Fuck."_

"Yeah," Mickey breathed back in a laugh. "That's what I was thinking."

Laughing as well, Ian pushed him hard onto the bed and pinned him there. Mickey heard him rustle through the drawer of his bedside table, where they both knew he always kept the lube. He kept his eyes closed and tried to control his breathing, but inhaled sharply when he felt those slicked-up fingers graze the insides of his thighs. _Jesus fucking Christ._

"Fuck, you're hot," said Ian. He was probing at his hole now, his other hand maneuvering Mickey more to his knees, granting him easier access to his cock. "Look at you. God, I missed you. I...sorry, I'll shut up now."

 _No, don't,_ Mickey wanted to say, but Ian's fingers were deep inside him now, twisting and curling as they loosened him up, and any words he might've had for him were lost in the low, guttural moan these ministrations elicited.

As was routine for them, Ian didn't waste more than a minute on prep before replacing his fingers in Mickey's ass with the head of his cock, but for once Mickey was disappointed. He didn't want to rush through this like the old days, when all he really cared about was getting off without thinking about the type of sex he was having to do it. Now, he cared that he was with Ian. He _wanted_ it to be Ian, and he wanted Ian to know this without him having to say it.

There was so much he wanted Ian to know, that he never fucking knew how to say....

"Oh, _fuck!"_ Mickey cried out as Ian slammed into him, effectively erasing his mind of anything that wasn't the cock inside of him now. "Ah, fuck. Christ. Fu- _ahh."_

"You're noisier than I remember," Ian commented between thrusts. "I like it."

" _Fuck_ you Gallagher."

"I think I'm fucking you, actually," Ian laughed.

"Then shut up and fuck me," Mickey panted, blushing even beneath the heat of being so turned on. He bit his lip and shoved his face into the mattress in an attempt to muffle his whines, and action which seemed to spur something in Ian

"Oh no you don't." Ian pulled out of his fast and sudden, grabbed Mickey's shoulder, and flipped him roughly onto his back. "I want to hear you."

That intense blue stare- more green than blue in this light- took Mickey's breath away. As rare as it was for them to kiss, even rarer was it for them to fuck face to face. In fact, thinking about it now, Mickey couldn't recall a single time that they had.

But that was clearly about to change. Mickey wasn't given a chance to react to the new position before Ian was pushing his legs up and driving back inside of him. He nailed his prostate on the first thrust.

"OH FUCK!" Mickey yelled again, louder than ever.

Ian hummed in satisfaction. "Mmm, that's it, baby."

 _Baby?_ Mickey wanted to scoff before he remembered earlier at the Gallagher house, when he had called Ian his boyfriend out loud for the first time, though he had barely realized it in his state of emotional distress. Add that to the fact that he was currently being fucked on his back, and the pet name was nowhere close to the strangest development in their relationship today.

Mickey panted something that might've been Ian's name somewhere in a string of curse words, he honestly didn't know. His ability to think, let alone speak coherently was diminishing by the second. Nothing mattered except Ian's body against him, _inside_ him. Ian's lips kissing and puffing hot breaths against his sweat-cooled neck. And those moans, _god._ He could see why Ian liked the noises. He was starting to like them, too.

"Ian....fuck, Ian-"

"That's it....come on....come on baby."

The murmured encouragements continued as Ian's movements began to pick up pace - again, much too rushed for Mickey's liking, but any disappointment was soon overwhelmed by his need to come. He gripped Ian's ass to pull him in closer, humping back with every thrust.

"Mick-" Ian breathed. His name became lost in a groan as Ian came. _Inside_ of him.

The sensation caused Mickey to come at almost exactly the same time, yet another first to add to the day's list.

"Whoa," Mickey panted without meaning to.

"No kidding," said Ian. Mindless of the sticky mess between them, he pulled Mickey to his chest and held him as they both came down from their post-sex highs. 

Cuddling. This _wasn't_ new, technically- Mickey had done little but hold Ian as he lay in bed for the past week- but this was the first time Ian had initiated it.

Taking it one step further, Ian kissed him again. It was a brief one, but just long enough to make Mickey chase his lips when they pulled away. The movement did not go unnoticed.

Ian's classic, boyish smirk- the one that appeared whenever Mickey showed the tiniest shred of vulnerability, and that was much too hopeful to be cocky- lit up his whole face. "Needy much?" he teased, then he laughed. He _laughed._

Ian's cheeks were full of color, freckles more apparent than Mickey had seen them in a long time. And his eyes, yes they were alive, but more than that; they were _healthy._ Not vacant from drugs or wild with mania, but bright and happy and normal. Ian was normal.

"Mick?" said Ian, because Mickey had yet to bite back with a sarcastic retort, or an annoyed "fuck off", or even an eye-roll in response to Ian's teasing comment. "You okay?"

He wanted to scream, actually, but this time in relief. Ian was _normal_. Not insane like his mom, or bipolar like his moronic siblings wanted to think. And he low-key hated himself for believing that shit at first, because it was so obvious now that it was just the drugs, like Ian had said. Coke had him bouncing off the walls, then withdrawal had him damn near comatose for awhile, but now he was back. Back to his beautiful, stable, intelligent, _normal_ self.

Not bipolar. Normal.

Before Ian could ask if he was okay again, Mickey threw his arms around him in an embrace. He felt Ian freeze in shock for several seconds before returning it, and he had to wonder briefly if this was anotherfirst for the two of them: a hug without a kiss.

But Mickey didn't care; at least, not right now. He would probably care later, probably agonize over this moment for hours before he could let himself fall asleep that night, but not yet. Right now, he just wanted...damn, he just wanted _this._

"I'm okay," Ian said into his ear. It was like the fucker could read his mind. "I promise, I'm-"

"I know." 

"So you don't have to do this anymore."

The fuck? Mickey pulled back. "Do what?"

Ian shrugged, suddenly looking timid. "You know. Be all nice and shit."

Ouch. Mickey supposed he couldn't blame him for thinking he didn't _want_ to be "nice and shit", but that didn't make it sting any less.

"Shut up, Gallagher," said Mickey, then pulled Ian back to him and resumed holding him like a lifeline.

* * *

Mickey slept through five phone calls, he later learned, before one finally woke him from his first peaceful sleep in over a week. Lifting his head groggily, he first made sure that Ian was still fast asleep before grabbing his cellphone from the nightstand.

"What?" he growled into it angrily. The Caller ID had just been a phone number, which meant that it wasn't anyone he respected enough to add as a contact.

"Answer the phone much, you fucking asshole? You left in a panic earlier, then never fucking called to explain. I was ready to just go over there and break down your door!"

The voice was every bit as bitchy as it was motherly. Who else but Fiona?

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"Um, hello? Ian! Is he okay?!"

Oh, right. "He's fine," said Mickey, curtly. "Better, actually."

Pause. Clearly not what Fiona had been expecting.

"....Okay, good. So why didn't you call-"

"Because fuck you, that's why."

"Excuse me?"

"Fuck you and your 'bipolar disease' bullshit. Christ, did you even fucking consider that it might've been the drugs making him all unstable?" said Mickey, trembling with anger. "Or were you just that eager to throw him in a nuthouse?"

Another pause. Mickey fought the urge to just hang up, because a part of him wanted to hear what Fiona had to say for herself.

When she spoke again, her voice was careful. "Ian told you it was only the drugs?"

"Yeah, plus the fact that it makes more sense than your dumb fucking theory. Thanks for that, by the way. I'm sure it really helped to overhear his own family talk about him like he's some fucking freak show."

"Alright Milkovich, I'm getting really fucking tired of your attitude. If you think...." Fiona trailed off, and it was clear that someone else was talking to her on her end. Mickey was fairly certain he knew who it was.

There were the sounds of muffled arguing and static as the phone was handled roughly- perhaps fought over- before a new voice spoke into his ear. "Mickey, is that you?"

"Who the fuck else would it be?" 

"Mick, I need you to listen to me very carefully, okay?" Lip's voice was calm, but had a deadly serious edge to it. "Are you listening?"

Again Mickey wanted to hang up, this time just to be a dick, but managed to resist. And figuring that not hanging up would be enough of a response to Lip's stupid question, he said nothing.

"Okay. I know you say that Ian is doing better-"

"He is." Mickey glanced to where Ian was curled up next to him, thankfully still asleep.

"And I believe you. But here's the thing, and I know you don't want to hear this-"

"I swear to Christ, if you say bipolar one more time," Mickey growled. He hoped the anger in his voice masked his fear, because _fuck_ was he afraid. Afraid of the very likely possibility that this comfortable delusion he had chosen (not delusion, the _truth!),_ where Fiona was wrong and Ian wasn't sick, and everything would be alright, was about to be shattered.

"It's not as simple as high then low, then high again," Lip went on with persistence. "The episodes are wildly unpredictable both in length and frequency. Not to mention severity. And there will be periods of normalcy in between."

"Bullshit," said Mickey, shaking his head. "Fucking bullshit. You're telling me now that he's got this mood-swing disease and it's completely fucking random? That's...."

Terrifying. It was terrifying. Mickey was still trying to convince himself that the genius college boy could somehow be wrong about this, or that he would have a reason to lie. Anything to avoid facing the truth.

"While unmedicated, yes!" said Lip urgently. "And Ian doesn't want to be bipolar anymore than you want him to, so of course he's in denial too! You need to take him to a clinic. I'm sure at this point, he's more likely to listen to you than any of us."

Mickey was shaking his head still, at who or what he didn't know. All he knew was that this couldn't be true. The whole drugs explanation made sense....didn't it?

There had to be other people whose withdrawals lasted a week.

"Mick, you still there?"

Suddenly aware that he wasn't breathing, Mickey gasped. Fuck, he was shaking, too. And when did his vision get blurry?

"Ian's fine," Mickey said, looking again at Ian's sleeping form. He stroked his vibrant hair, silky smooth to the touch. His face was warm and his breathing was steady. Hell, he was breathing easier than Mickey right now. He was fine.

"He's fine," Mickey repeated as firmly as possible. "I've got him. He's asleep, and he's fine." These were all things he knew to be true; comforting raindrops in the goddamn ocean of things he did not know.

"I believe you," Lip said again, in that condescending voice of his. "All I'm saying is, it's temporary."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Just telling it like it is, Mickey. I know that you care about him, and you deserve to be prepared."

He could vaguely hear Fiona say something in the background. Nothing nice, judging by the tone.

Mickey wished he could put his fist through the phone and punch both Lip and Fiona Gallagher in the face simultaneously, but there was an easier way to shut them up. He hung up the phone. Then he put it on silent mode and threw it across the room, where its landing was cushioned by a pile of dirty clothes.

"Well, that was pleasant."

Mickey jolted, only now noticing Ian staring at him with wide-open eyes. "Jesus, Gallagher. How long have you been awake?"

"Just a minute or so. I take it the fam says hi?"

"Something like that," Mickey grumbled. His heart was still pounding wildly from the stress of that whole conversation. And how much had Ian heard?

"Thanks," said Ian.

"For what?"

Ian blinked, disbelief etched in his features. "Gee, I don't know. For always having my back? For not letting my family drag me to a hospital? For staying with me even after-"

"Jesus Christ," Mickey cut him off, feeling a flush coming on. "Fuck off with that already. You're not a chore for me, Gallagher."

"Yeah? Then what am I to you?"

As anxious as the question made him, Mickey didn't miss a beat. "A pain in my ass most of the time, but somehow tolerable."

Ian laughed loudly at this. "Good to know you tolerate me. And I'm guessing the double meaning was intentional?"

"....Yeah," Mickey lied, having just realized it himself. He fought off a smirk. "Now either shut up and lay down, or get out of my room. I'm still tired."

"I'm not," said Ian, but he made no move to leave the bed. Instead he pulled Mickey down and tucked him underneath his arm, allowing the shorter boy to put his head on his chest. "But I'll stay with you."

Mickey fell quiet at those words, remembering like it was yesterday when Ian had asked the same of him. That frighteningly weak voice of his whispering, _stay with me._

Mickey remembered his fear just as clearly, when that first conversation with Fiona was still fresh in his mind. Back when the word _bipolar_ felt like a different language on his tongue; he couldn't even say it.

Now, he knew far too much about that goddamned word, plus a brand new phrase to hammer against the inside of his skull every time he saw Ian looking happy: _period of normalcy._

Bonus word: _temporary._

"Goodnight," said Ian, which was stupid seeing as how it was early afternoon.

"'Night," said Mickey anyway. Damn, he wished he could sleep. But he was lying before; he wasn't tired. Tired of thinking, maybe, but that's all his brain wanted to do.

_Bipolar. Highs and lows. Mania and depression. Period of normalcy._

Ian's hands in his hair, stroking down his back, holding him close to his chest.

_Unpredictable. Period of normalcy. Temporary._

Ian begging him to believe that he's not crazy like his mom. _"I'm not bipolar."_

 _He's in denial....need to take him to a_ _clinic._

Ian thanking him for always being there, and for having his back. Ian very clearly not buying this diagnosis, and glad to have Mickey on his side.

_Bipolar. Unpredictable. Period of normalcy._

Ian smiling, laughing, cheeks full of color....

Pushing his legs back, panting, calling him _baby._

_Period of normalcy. Temporary._

Ian smiling. Laughing. Talking like normal.

_Temporary._

Normal. Fine.

_Unpredictable. Temporary._

Normal.

_Temporary._

Normal.

_Temporary. Temporary. Temporary...._


End file.
